


Someplace Warmer, Someplace Safer

by foolscapper



Series: How the Wild Things Start Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Here we goooo, just as a heads up, m-merry christmas, nothing graphic, on tumblr, there's some discussion, warning for mention of CSA, was originally called Like An Angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: "Hello," a little, polite voice chirps from seemingly out of nowhere. Sam nearly leaps out of his skin, teeth snapping together as he turns in a fraction of a second — ready to fight, dropping his grocery bags as his hand reaches around the back of him.(Bright lights, feral howls of pain, blood on dirt and black eyed spectators-)His breath catches at the startled teenager with sandy-blonde hair standing in front of him. He's dressed in clothes he's clearly worn for a long time, the knitting on his gloves and cap frayed. The smell of an alleyway greets Sam belatedly, and shame creeps into his face when he realizes just what he's actually looking at here: some homeless kid whose smile has faded into a look of uncertainty.A small holiday sequel to 'How the Wild Things Start'.
Series: How the Wild Things Start Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076387
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	Someplace Warmer, Someplace Safer

**Author's Note:**

> This is not super edited, so sorry for any typos or grammar issues!
> 
> I don't know if this will be multi-chaptered; maybe if my vision for it fleshes out more fully. For now, though, a loose one-shot sequel to How the Wild Things Start!

In the year of our Lord 2020, Sam Winchester didn't think that Christmas would feel so much less... _sore_ of a spot. Maybe that's because he's practiced a handful of Christmases with Leia and Lilly now and has realized with some clarity that holidays can sometimes be about as good as the number of kids who get excited over it. When it was just him and Dean, it was a coupla beers and memories of little kids who sat in hotel rooms waiting for their parent — _singular_. Now Lilly is coloring pictures of reindeer and eagerly reminding Dean of what she wants for the hundredth time.  
  
("Yeah, yeah, I got it," Dean grumbles, without even the smallest bit of heat to it, "How could I forget when you drew it on my bedroom wall?")  
  
Meanwhile, Leia's fourteen, so the appeal of a 'Santa Claus' isn't really there for her; she and Sam are too alike on that front, having lost whatever magic Christmas would've had when they were very little. But she loves that Lilly loves it. She helps her hang up tinsel and all those basic holiday ornaments around the bunker. When Sam and Dean are out to get the kitsune her dietary needs, she prays to Castiel, makes him trek all the way to Lebanon — just so she can ask him to drive her to the rental box in front of the liquor store for holiday films.  
  
Anyway, uh. Sam feels... good.  
  
He feels good about it. About Christmas. 

First time in forever, he knows, but things evolve with healing, right? With mending?

A low, molasses drip of mending.

Whatever makes them happy makes him happy, and it doesn't help that Dean's starting to get into a bit of a frantic holiday mood himself when he realizes Cas and Leia had rented _National Lampoon's Holiday Vacation_. With one girl on either side of him, Dean chatters on and on about classics, movies like A Christmas Story and the Grinch, and Sam can only roll his eyes in good humor and sound fondness. It's a good day. He hasn't had a nightmare in days — hasn't slept-walked in almost as long (not that it stops Dean from keeping the front door locked, so Sam can't wander out into the snow again and scare the shit out of them all).

It's the day before Christmas, and while there's plenty of cereal, boxed mac 'n cheese and canned Chef Boyardee, but absolutely nothing that rightfully belongs on a dinner table for the holidays.  
  
"I'll be back; just gonna pick up some stuff," he says, while the three are in the middle of ♪ _Mr. Grinch, you're a bad banana, Mr. Grinch, with the greasy black peel - ♪_. Dean snaps out of the trance that had made him 10-years-old for a moment and looks critically at Sam; Lilly doesn't look away from the television, but Leia's sharp gaze shoots to Sam at the same time as Dean's.  
  
Dean says, "You sure you don't want us to go, too?"  
  
And Sam waves it off. Waves _both_ of them off, since Leia is also trying hard to judge him under her bangs. "I'll be fine. Just hitting the grocery for something that works for tomorrow. Please try not to feed them straight sugar while I'm gone?"  
  
"Yes, honey," Dean huffs, but there's some hesitance in the way he turns to look back at the TV. He couldn't really blame him, considering what shitty luck they had apart. Or, well... considering the guilt that still festers in Dean like old gangrene that never goes one way or the other; never heals, never worsens, just sits in its eternal rot. Sam knows it's there every time his brother glances at pale scars intersecting across his arms, or when Dean manages to rouse him from a bad dream, or when Sam spaces out at the dinner table until something startles him to attention. Sam's screwed up, and Dean's still gnawing at his own leg for letting it happen.  
  
But... shit happens.

Sam tries not to think about it anymore than he has to, because it's not like the muscle memory ever goes away, nor those phantom smells or those film reels of the monster rings that plays back-to-back in his head. No, no, he's not going to think about it. Because today's a good day. It's a good _week_. He takes the keys to the truck he's kept to himself, makes a mental note to call Castiel and see if he'll stop by for visiting. The air outside is cold and bitterly unfair to the lungs, but he tugs his jacket tighter around himself and wills the old truck AC to start heating him back up.  
  
The drive isn't far, and the people at the place he's driving to know him well enough. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing, especially now that they see him changed so drastically; he's pretty sure Dean just tells them all he'd gotten deployed somewhere and ended up hurt, or something. He doesn't bother figuring out the cover story, because he's not ever going to be in the mood to talk about it with Joey Behind the Counter or Leticia Stocking the Shelves, no matter how much he likes them. The bell to the store rings as he enters, they wave him in, ask him about his plans for the holidays, tell him all about their kids... He surprises himself by talking about his own, albeit vaguely, because you never know who is truly safe.

Even though he has little to no skill in hearty holiday feasts, he knows the basics from television: cranberry sauce, turkey, stuffing, eggnog, so on and so on. Despite his complaint to Dean not to overfeed the kids on sweets, he ends up grabbing two boxes of themed cookies, too. Rumpled twenties at a counter leads him step by step to the exit, and step by step to the sidewalk.  
  
It's not until he walks out the front door, though, that he feels something's... _off_.   
  
He'd never claim to still have the powers he did at age 22, but — the hairs on his neck stand up, and goosebumps run along his arms beneath his thick winter coat. It's hard to say what even caused it; there's nobody around. He glances uneasily left and right, and then starts a slow and cautious walk toward the parking lot just around the corner. His heart thumps in his chest and his mind plays cruel games with him the longer he entertains it: what if it's a hunter coming for him? Looking for him and his family, after what happened at their old cabin? It hasn't been that long.  
  
"Hello," a little, polite voice chirps from seemingly out of nowhere.   
  
Sam nearly leaps out of his skin, teeth snapping together as he turns in a fraction of a second — ready to fight, dropping his grocery bags as his hand reaches around the back of him.   
  
( _Bright lights, feral howls of pain, blood on dirt and black eyed spectators-_ )  
  
His breath catches at the startled teenager with sandy-blonde hair standing in front of him. He's dressed in clothes he's clearly worn for a long time, the knitting on his gloves and cap frayed. The smell of an alleyway greets Sam belatedly, and shame creeps into his face when he realizes just what he's actually looking at here: some homeless kid whose smile has faded into a look of uncertainty.   
  
Wanted a buck, but ended up with some over-sized freak having an episode at him.  
  
"S—sorry," Sam chokes out. He's trying not to let himself get pulled under, but the lights have... always been so _bright_. The kid seems appeased by the way Sam steps back, though, and moves to rather calmly start collecting the fallen goods from the ground; for a moment, Sam wonders if he's just gonna take them for the trouble, but the boy starts putting them back into the brown paper bags they'd come in.   
  
"It's fine. I must be scarier than I thought." It's said in such an easy way, and he looks up with a kind, gap-toothed smile. "I was going to ask if you could spare some money, but I can see now that I should have made my presence more obvious."  
  
... That's certainly a way for a _teenager_ to put it. It reminds Sam of a particular angel of Thursday more than someone like Claire or Alex. With a somewhat forced smile, he bends down to quickly collect what the kid hasn't. "No, no, I'm — I'm good at being on edge. It wasn't you. Sorry for... that." He's not sure how to put it. He has a hard time remembering how to talk to people, sometimes. There's something particularly distracting about this one, though. Maybe it's the fact that he's so youthful, covered in dirt and red in the nose. Looks at Sam like how Leia had — with the hope that the tall, strange man can help him.  
  
Or is he just projecting?  
  
He pinches the bridge of his nose, smiling tiredly. "What's your name, kid?"  
  
The boy says, almost proudly, "Jack."  
  
"... Um, well. Jack. I'm Sam. It's good to meet you. I think you deserve something nice for not thinking I'm a total weirdo, so... if you wanna carry a bag to the truck for me, I've got some cookies and dollars to offer you?" It feels kind of demeaning in a way, like he's giving the poor kid some basic task to 'earn' what Sam'll give him. But Jack just nods and walks along side him.   
  
"Thanks, Sam," Jack says. He says Sam's name like he's testing out the weight of it, forming it carefully in his mouth. Despite Jack's appearance, he radiates something... well, something. It's warmer than the weather.   
  
"Where are you from, Jack?" Sam asks, tilting his chin forward to look down, give him his full attention. His voice is softer, more careful.   
  
"From everywhere," Jack says, and looks over at Sam in return. "I honestly don't know. I've just always been... like this."  
  
"... Homeless?" Sam offers.  
  
Jack cocks his head to the side, gazing ahead of them. "Homeless. Yes."  
  
It's not a long walk, so it's not like there's much more to talk about before they reach the old truck. They load up the groceries, and Sam provides one box of cookies (in this case, the box that is less crushed from falling on the asphalt). It feels like a meager kind of offering, all things considered. "Here — I mean, if you like sweets. I bought way too many, so... Um. And — "  
  
"I like cookies," Jack says as a matter-of-factly. "Thank you, Sam."  
  
Doesn't feel good enough, though. Sam gnaws his lip and feels... some sort of way about all this. Like he's doing something incorrectly, here. Leia and Lilly have ruined him for life. "Where are you heading, anyway? Do you live in town? I've never seen you here before."  
  
Jack's already got the box of cookies wrenched open, and he's eating them too fast, a lot like how Sam used to eat his rations when he lived in a small and dark cage. Sam's already predicting that Jack's gonna get sick, and he can't really hide the wince as the crumbs start to collect on the boy's old jacket. Jack looks like he's unsure how to answer, not for the first time. "I'm just moving around. I have nowhere to be, as long as it's — " He struggles for the right word. "Safe."  
  
"Safe," Sam says. Jack nods with a mouthful.  
  
"Shafe," he says.  
  
Sams hands twitch nervously at the thought of sending the boy away with his 'rewards'. Whatever the hell cookies constitute as, anyway. It's not safe out there, that's for sure. It's gonna be below freezing for a while in Lebanon, and —  
  
He sighs softly. No... No, it's not smart. Not smart to bring a stray into a house full of supernatural lore books, weapons, and _monster children_. The teenager would freak out. He'd panic, and he'd know where they live, and he could tell anyone with an ear open about where a guy named Sam lives with his odd little family in some weird bunker. But...

"You want me to drive you somewhere? I mean, there should be a homeless shelter around here somewhere, if you need somewhere a little less... _this_." He gestures to the world around them, swathed in a fine layer of snow. Jack seems mildly concerned by the thought, a crooked line of uncertainty to his lips. Sam recognizes maybe he looks like he's one-half a serial killer in his plaid, with his weird flinching and nervousness. "You don't have to, but... I don't want you to freeze out here."  
  
After a moment, Jack does seem to relent; nobody likes to be cold, and Sam could tell even if he was handling it well, it was not a pleasant experience he wants to endure any longer than he has to. So he nods at last, and Sam gestures to the passenger seat. "Climb aboard, then. I think I remember the street and everything; you'll be warm in no time. And, uh. We can get you something better than cookies, actually."  
  
"I don't know what can be better than cookies," Jack replies, sliding into the passenger seat, "But I'm willing to consider it." The truck stutters to life against the push of the cold around them. The moment the truck hits the asphalt, Sam cranks up the heat and makes a beeline for the nearest Taco Bell there is. It's cheap, but you get a hell of a lot with a little; he and Dean were no stranger to that particular drive-thru back in the day, when Dean was too tired to eat expired food and Sam was too tired to go buy himself a decent salad and sandwich. Jack seems a little excited by the sight of the place, so he imagines it's not his first rodeo with the cheaper side of what Dean calls 'fine dinning', either.  
  
The Helping Hands Homeless Shelter is a good distance, so Sam learns a few things in-between Jack scarfing down burritos and soft tacos: he's fourteen or fifteen (he thinks?; Sam's mortified by the thought of him being on his own all this time), his mother died when he was born, he's not sure where or who his father is, and he's always been moving. No grandparents, no uncles or aunts, nobody that he's familiar with. Sam can relate, sorta. When he was Jack's age, he only knew about his dad and Dean, and — that was really it. Sometimes life just doesn't want you to have a safe or warm family to have as back-up. Sometimes you're just hoping the nice waitress at the diner will slip you a milkshake for looking so small and sad, and you can pretend he's Aunty Someone or Another.

The boy eats the food in peace, and Sam orders nothing; he still struggles with it. Eating. But he's gained a _few_ pounds. 

Once the last taco wrapper is thrown on the floorboard as designated, though, Jack looks uneasy.   
  
Sam registers that discomfort long before the boy asks, "... Is this 'a trade'?"  
  
"A what?"  
  
"A trade," Jack reaffirms, and his eyes — glance down. Towards Sam's crotch.   
  
Sam feels like he's going to puke when he puts two and two together, his stomach twisting and heart lurching. He almost slams on the brakes then and there, in the middle of the street, but he manages to avoid doing anything so fucking stupid as to scare the kid. Sam and Dean have both had their fair share of close calls growing up — Sam's had to scream at peeping toms through hotel windows, or weird men at gas stations who keep sizing them up while they read magazines, or —  
  
But.   
  
But they both had rules, and Dean always had an extra eye out on him.   
  
The thought of — the implication of it, it makes his blood boil, rushing in his ears. He thinks of Lilly and Leia and —  
  
Sam's been quiet too long. So Jack speaks up again.

"It's alright. I don't do anything if they don't ask first. If they don't have something to give me," Jack says, confidently, and Sam wants to _scream_.  
  
" _No,_ " Sam manages, voice tight. "No, that's _not_ okay. Anyone who asks something like that, they're monsters, do you understand me? They're evil, and you shouldn't trust them. Not for a second."  
  
Jack leans back more comfortably in his seat, confused — but glad. Sam's hands are itching for a blade and someone to hunt. A monster in a ring to rip into. He breathes out instead and looks at the road. It doesn't take long before Jack finds himself tired of the quiet, though, and his gaze moves to Sam's wrists, instead. His hands. The sliver of arm that peaks out under his sleeve.  
  
"What happened to your hands?" he asks, innocently. Concerned. Sam's shoulders sag, like the kid has gone and popped that balloon full of rage.   
  
"... Monsters hurt me, too," he says weakly, because he figures the kid deserves the truth. "A different kind of monster, but monsters all the same."  
  
Jack reaches over then, and Sam startles at the hand cupping over his damaged knuckles.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jack says. "About the monsters."  
  
Sam kind of wants to cry, honestly. "Me, too."  
  
He was supposed to get a Christmas dinner, in and out of the store, nothing more to it. He was supposed to just give the kid some money and maybe a snack. He's supposed to just drop him off somewhere a little warmer and safer. (Leia looked at him like a hero, once, like he was going to swoop in and save her; Jack isn't looking at him like that, though; he's just a guy giving him a ride and cookies). Sam's phone rings. He doesn't need to look to know it'll say DEAN in white letters on the screen.

Just a minute 'til they get to the shelter.  
  
( _You're not a hero, you barely managed to protect your girls_ , he reminds himself.)  
  
"Sam?" Jack asks. _Ring, ring. Ring, ring._  
  
(But Leia looks at him like he’s a superhero. A shaking, high, rabid superhero, hopped up on demon blood, with hands so tense and locked, they look like claws in the darkness. And beside her — a crying boy, a few years younger than her. There’s a burn on his leg, a shake of his shoulders. Worst of all, there’s skin sloughed off around him, and it’s only then that Sam realizes the boy looks different than he had an hour before. A shifter? A small, scared shifter. Like Glenda had been.)  
  
He pulls over on the side of the road. Reaches into his jacket pocket, retrieves the phone with a shaking hand. When he answers Dean and hears his brother asking nervously what's taking him so long, he can't help but look at Jack. Jack, who is looking at him with an uneasy amount of trust. How he has it, Sam's not fucking sure, but he feels like he _has_ to do this.  
  
(He thinks of two little girls, holding hands as they watch Christmas cartoons.)  
  
"I — I'm bringing someone back with me," he manages. "His name is Jack, and he... needs a place to stay, for a little while."  
  
He does a U-turn as a conversation unfurls, driving toward the bunker as snow begins to fall once again, soft, delicate. It's not a long one. He promises he'll explain when he gets there.  
  
Jack looked awed, still looks awed when he hangs up — stares at Sam like this was destiny. Fate. _Something._ "I thought so."  
  
"... You thought what?"  
  
Jack smiles slowly with that warm, gap-toothed smile of his.   
  
"That something about you, it felt like an angel." 


End file.
